dawn of May—morning
smells;
of coffee, lingering
coconut
mingled in the sticky
dark kitchen—shy crack of
feeble
eggshells and stale
idea of almond
maple
butter motivating glands to wet
soft action—
later, on the hot
road; gnarled
pavement cooks sunnyside—bitter
hot
smell of burnt
rubber, fried, smothered in acrid
jam
of lumpish traffic—
but it's no matter; somehow
I still feel ticked—alive,
egged-on
by
the same kind burn
—called hunger!
